MELITA
Melita had spent the greater part of the day merely exploring: dipping her toes into the sea for as long as possible, etching and sketching her way through sands, lingering long after her footprints had become nothing more than shells and ghostly imprints. She’d reveled in the keen taste of the sun, made the best of it with fresh freckles and reddened cheeks, dabbled and wandered along rocky crags in search of fish or any other fauna, merely content to revel in arches of paradise she’d once had. It wasn’t the Dragon’s Throat – not by a longshot – but they were echoes and fringes of something whole. Dusk fell while she hastened along the city inclinations, Fangorn at her heels, weapons at her back. This was the only place thus far that made her the slightest apprehensive: an unknown barreling and quelling, a dangerous, treacherous border sliding its way into her soul. She hadn’t immersed herself into the same levels of consternation since the Rift, and by then it had become normal, everyday happenstance, to witness violence and vehemence.
So she held her head high, proud and nymph-like, a little huntress scalding her way up the streets, breaths of sunshine and irreverence all at once, when another traipsed within her sights. Everything and everyone was wholly unfamiliar, so she braced herself, a little taller, a little straighter, a little guarded as lantern lights flooded upon strangers. The honeybee youth’s intentions were to merely pass him on by, either maintaining herself as some threatening presence, or to be ignored altogether, allowed to meander along her way.
help tonight to split its seams
Give the bruises out like gifts
Give the bruises out like gifts
